‘How lovely the terraces are and that rather misty blue of the Forget-me-nots like a soft preparation for the distance.’ ---- Percy S. Cane
The Gardener
(a work in progress…)
Across the old drive Percy S. Cane
the upper glade continues
between the trunks
of two great beech trees
before the gardens this was a tangle
of more or less wild undergrowth
gorse and heather grew naturally
along with fir and Scots pine
now the slope down to the east
is a lawn lined with hollies
& conifers
I follow the road
to the right
tarmac gives way to mud
two women sit beneath
the pantile roof of the temple
a common blue butterfly
winged tips
dipped
in the same colours
as the sky
disappear beneath
the shade of a conifer…
[SECTION OF DAYLIGHT MISSING]
the first time I visited the temple visitor
it was dusk
I could barely
make the trees from the sky
I’d come to get away from it all:
the grandfather clock ticking
in the living room. Cigarette smoke.
Cheap liquor. Chair at the head
of the table
empty
my mother stood
by the window...
but as I walked beneath
the hazel pine
all I could think of was
the glow of the streetlamp
trapped
in her
cotton dress
how sure can you be of the roundness stone
of your memories?
nightingale subsumed
by the lagoon
that hangs
above
us.
The starvation of light night
feeds the hippocampus
as the wind slows
& the howl turns inward
imagination totters at the
brink of something bigger
— a shape that assumes all falls
if you look away
who's to be
held accountable?
if you’ve never seen the colour
of lapis lazuli, who’s to say
you know the true meaning of blue?
From the terrace local
the silhouette of hills
descend
toward the Dart
beneath
the sweet chestnut trees
what thoughts
exist
in the Hornton stone head
of Henry Moore’s Reclining Figure?
[ENTER DREAMS HERE]
Up, Up & UP sweet chestnut tree
there she goes
the highly strung chords of pleasure
moon beneath the stars
I saw it in the venation of a leaf
mapped out in dream
the ballerinas of Rudolf von Laban
like heirlooms of the night
white shoes gliding
across cut grass
never have I felt so sure cinnabar moth
of my own solitude
in the plentitudes
of dusk
— Wednesday, May 26th, 2021 —
they call it a ‘Blood Moon’ student
in North America, parts of western U.S.,
Australia, Southeast Asia
& western South America,
the moon moves
into Earth’s umbral shadow
at the centre of the
whispering circle
rain collects
on York stone
wind trailing over a bank
of shining cranesbill
I begin to hum a soft melody
the same song my mother sang
in the streets of Stavanger
ten thousand voices congregate on the hills grass
there is no need for a revolution
the gospel is here. A chapel
beneath the stars.
Like the birds in the labyrinths
of Daedalus’s gut
our song
enlivens. It emboldens.
No one can hear it &
return to the village
as they once were.
[TURN OF DAY]
wild garlic settles like snow birdwatcher
beneath the shadows of redwood
the magnolia steps
wet from yesterday's rain
fallen petals
plastered to the ground
in the early hours of dawn
you can hear:
pied wagtails, blackcaps,
green woodpeckers & jackdaws
during lockdown I saw
a herd of fallow deer
near the towering plants
of gunnera
now as I stand at the edge
of York stone
the valley fields
are empty
the ground covered
in yellow buttercup
there is a memory in everything wind
you just need to touch it
at the entrance of the tiltyard boy
five dogs bound down the
steps
past swan fountain
sink their teeth
into bear flesh
a steam train
echoes across the valley
they forbid me to look the Great Aunt of
into the sunken garden Miss Champernowne
the twelve Irish yews
planted to hide
the bull & bear-baiting
drop the spool of cotton cloud
& the city falls
the arched path like a sickle moon
in the grass
there is no telling
when the crown of heaven
will fall to the ground
so you must learn to dwell
at the crossroads
neither here nor there
down
neither nor
up
adrift in a rivulet of sunlight blue-tailed damselfly
my wings cannot be seen
they call it an apparition
to glimpse
beyond
formalities
but if you lean into the bellicose
winds
& listen
you‘ll hear the utterance
of stars
I crouch beneath a katsura tree volunteer
follow the gravel path up
the bronze donkey sits on a
plinth of blue limestone
they say Willi Soukop’s studio
used to be the thatched summerhouse
— over there
I climb into the flute garden bumblebee
of a periwinkle
crumbs of sunlight
coat my hind legs
it’s as sticky as
yesterday
the diachronic syllables
of the hive remain
in residue
to make a pound of honey,
I travel over 55,000 miles
I hear you draw your water
from a tap?
Beyond the rockspray cotoneaster student II
is a gate that leads towards
the courtyard
along the left wall
a wrought iron tap
bleeds with rust
snail shells hidden
in the hollow cavities
of terracotta clay pipes
in the window
overlooking the courtyard
a mannequin’s hand
points toward the sky
twenty yards ahead & the door
to the walled garden is open
people work in a greenhouse
gloved hands carrying
modular trays of salad
step into the corridor sunlight
of the wren’s breath
& the violence of red
takes on a different name
turn left & you enter
the gardener’s yard
where coils of plastic
shaped like stonecrop
sit on dry earth
barbed wire ensnared
on its own vexations
the peculiar taste
of honey on its tongue
[TO BE CONTINUED...]
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